BY HARRISON.

That which the world miscals a jail
A private closet is to me;

Whilst a good conscience is my bail,
And innocence my liberty:

Locks, bars and solitude together met

Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

I, whilst I wisht to be retired,
Into this private room was turned,

As if their wisdoms had conspired
The salamander should be burned;

Or, like those sophists that would drown a fish,

I am constrained to suffer what I wish.

These manacles upon my arm
I as my mistress' favors wear;

And for to keep my ankles warm
I have some iron shackles there;

These walls are but my garrison; this cell,

Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel.

I'm in the cabinet lockt up,
Like some high-prized margarite,

Or, like the Great Mogul or Pope,
Am cloistered up from public sight:

Retiredness is a piece of majesty,

And thus, proud Sultan, I'm as great as thee.